Wherein I Win the Award for the Lamest Lame-Wad Way to Render Yourself Lame

I sprained my ankle last night. In such a way that will require medical attention once all this New Years holiday malarkey is done and over with. And how might I have done such a thing? Well, let me set the scene for you.

It was about 9 o'clock. We were all hunkered in for the evening, having been unable to secure a baby sitter. We were planning to eat some dinner, watch a movie or two, and ring in the New Year with America's Oldest Teenager.

There was some amount of wine consumed. Not a small amount, but not a large amount, either.

Before we settled in with the flicks, I came upon an episode of Made on the new TiVo. This particular installment featured an athletic boy who wanted to be made into a figure skater. As a former figure skater, I totally geeked out and started watching the episode.

(Side note: my excitement over this horrible show is the least embarrassing part of this story. You are in for a doozy.)

While the program was on, SOB and I started discussing ice skating. I plan to get Sam on the ice sometime in the next six months, but since I haven't been on skates since high school SOB began taunting me. He was insinuating that I wouldn't be able to keep myself upright on the ice anymore. Well, his mostly good natured ribbing escalated into a full blown quiz of my knowledge of figure skating. Try as I might, I couldn't explain the difference between a toe loop jump and a salchow jump.

Do you see where this is going?

My mildly inebriated self decided it would be a great idea to demonstrate the difference between these two jumps in my living room. Just in case you were wondering, there is no ice rink in my living room. I did a fair job of demonstrating the toe loop, but when I was coming down from the salchow I landed on Sam's shoe.

(By the way, totally my fault the shoe was in the middle of the living room floor. I am a horrible housekeeper. Still more embarrassment to come...)

SOB was about to laugh, but he heard a sickening sound that stopped him dead in his tracks. As I laid sprawled on the floor he began to mobilize, getting ice and an ace bandage. After a brief but thorough exam, he concluded that luckily I didn't break anything, but that it was likely that I sprained my calcaneofibular ligament (CFL).

Since it was new year's eve, and I wasn't even considering the idea of heading to the ER, he fashioned me a cane from an old curtain rod. It's more of a staff than a cane, really, but it helps to keep my pimp hand strong.

So what was the most embarrassing thing about this entire event? That I was watching (and enjoying) bad MTV shows? No. That I am a horrible housekeeper? No. That I have a pimp limp to go with my new cane? Not even close.

That while all of this was going on, in honor of the anniversary of the night SOB proposed to me, I may have been wearing this.